Afternoon In America

April 12: See, I don't get up in the morning. I get up and it's morning for me ... but, alas, not for most. By this hour, everyone knows Kurt Vonnegut has died, and probably a good many of you have burst into the same somewhat surprising tears.



Ah, but the heart remembers. I have always maintained, it has a memory like a horse. A writer whose worked you have loved, whose sayings became part of your sayings ... regrettably, time has its way. But those tears? That pain at realizing he is gone? The body remembers. busy busy busy. A flesh diary. So it goes.



So much more steadfast than the mind of daily life.



Oh, my dear Mr. Rosewater, bless , keep.